


Loving someone.

by simplerplease



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blogging, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Theater AU, non famous thot nick, oh i forgot the essential, so he's kinda famous, they're both sad and lonely and stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplerplease/pseuds/simplerplease
Summary: @TommoLou: ‘pity he keeps being given such roles because he doesn’t even have to play’ at least i’m not shitting what everyone likes just to get famous you fucking loser@heavytheaterlover: just made me even more famous darling____or a theater au where nick's the most pretentious scenic designer stuck in his existential crisis and louis is an actor who's made some poor life choices and now doesn't know what to do





	Loving someone.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



_@TommoLou_ : ‘pity he keeps being given such roles because he doesn’t even have to play’ at least i’m not shitting what everyone likes just to get famous you fucking loser

 _@heavytheaterlover:_ just made me even more famous darling

Nick flinches when the phone in his pocket starts vibrating. He licks his lips and pulls it out to see Harry’s ugly sleeping photo on the screen. He catches himself frowning too hard. Then presses the phone to his ear.

“Oh my god.”

Nick chuckles. Harry has this thing about him, whenever you’re on the phone together, it feels like he’s somewhere next to you, with his eyes glistening with excitement or sadness or curiosity, with his large hands constantly moving with chaotic control; with his curls stealing all your attention with their ridiculous gorgeousness.

That’s why Nick is not considered to be alone in his living room any more, kind of really fucking pissed off, kind of really fucking satisfied with himself.

“Yeah, that’s a rather...interesting situation.”

“Do you—“ he hears Harry refreshing the Twitter dash. “Do you think he’ll write anything back?”

“I have absolutely no idea, Harold.”

They go silent for the next couple of seconds, both feeling like two kids managing a mischief and trying not to laugh. Nick practically _feels_ that Harry’s full pink lips go paler and paler from pressing them together tight, his face has probably gone pinker than usual already and the crinkles by his laughing eyes are probably adorably deep too.

It’s hard to tell who cracks up first. Harry just giggles into the phone and Nick throws his head back and honest to god _laughs_ , primarily just to shake the fuck off that unexplainable anger caused by the thing he really shouldn’t pay any attention to.

It’s stupid, what _he_ said. First of all, only two people on this planet (plus two extremely important pups) know that Nick owns _@heavytheaterlover_ that he still doesn’t quite understand how became that popular amongst the whole world’s theater nerds. He created this blog because there were no proper reviews on “Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812” and then suddenly everyone starts liking his thoughts and opinions, he even got quoted in a couple of pretty heavy papers and someone tried to pay him for a nice review, which is interesting, because although Nick fucking adores being the centre of the world, he doesn’t really crave fame. He proved it when, after getting a degree in theater arts, he went for scenic design instead of acting. He’s still there, making drawings, layouts, 3D models and all that jazz, giving people his eyes, showing them how he sees the story. Not being it, but creating it, which is as grand and essential as writing or acting too.

Nick’s perfectly content with his life, all in all. And for him to experience some bloody Louis Tomlinson accusing him in being hypocritical _and_ hungry for fame is...too much. Like everything he is and does.

“You know what, I will actually pay him to drag your ass to the court just to watch you two.”

“Harold, darling,” Nick huffs once more, “you know I’d have to fucking end him by the time you finish your soda.”

Nick hates to admit that he means it.

***

“I actually don’t like bell peppers.”

Nick says is...well, dead serious, standing in front of all goddamn directors of the ‘Theaterъ’ theater, with an orange fucking bell pepper in his hand, explaining the idea of Goethe’s ‘Faust’s ‘ set. Casey, the artistic director, crosses his hands on his chest and lifts his head a little bit. It’s more than enough.

“I actually don’t like bell peppers but they are really pretty and I look at them often at the supermarket, and that’s what I’m thinking about,” he puts the pepper on the palm of his hand to make sure everyone sees it. “I want to cut the bigger stage and make four,” he points to the four knolls on the poor vegetable, “different sets for the most important parts of the play, a couple of cork walls to separate the sectors would be enough. Seriously, we have two revolving stages and we have never done it before—“

“Because the sets would be ugly and small, Nicholas,” the marketing director, aka Jo, aka the least important person at this particular meeting says with his usual poisonously-solemn gaze. It’s like he’s already programmed himself to watch you fail, and fail hard.

“ It’s not Shakespeare, we don’t need anything grand and pompous, if you ask me, and—“

“I actually like the idea.”

In Nick’s humble opinion, the authority has always belonged to Mr. Reetherman, a seventy-four years old dramaturg that dragged Nick as many times as he honestly deserved it, but without him, Nick probably wouldn’t know shit either. One word of his approval is worth the whole world, because this person knows his job better than anyone else and constructive criticism is probably his second name. He looks at Nick with the usual unreadable expression on his face, eyes calm and collected, dirty-green constellations inside worn-out blue irises, framed with thousands of deep wrinkles. Nick has always thought that even though he doesn’t smile often at work, he’s probably the kindest and most adorable with hundreds of his friends.

“And which parts exactly would you suggest to choose for these four sectors, may I ask?”

“Heaven and other sublime dimensions, Faust’s study, the town, it would fit almost any act with characters other than Mephistopheles and Faust himself, and a forest. I would love all the decorations to keep being changed along the way, for example after the wild forest sabbath it would be great to have a Disney inspired loveliness around, but those are details,” Nick breathes out, almost feeling the thumping of his heart in his throat.

He’s followed with Reetherman’s eyes before he blinks and looks at Casey.

“And do you have any sketches we could see?” Nick meets Miss Woodsen’s, she’s the technical director, bright brown eyes and nods, already passing her the papers.

“What’s the purpose of different angles of the sets?”

“The deeper perception,” as he watches them examining the pictures, his heart sorta calms down. “Of course we can’t set the angles too differently, but I think if we kind of play with the sets’ sizes, on emotional level the play would win more. We need the narrow gloom of Faust’s study to contrast with the width and airiness of the forest,” Nick really hopes his agressive articulation won’t be pointless, “and Heaven and the town sets can be equal, the lack of difference can be symbolic.”

Reetherman is the last one to look at the papers, but Jo’s disgusted face gives Nick hope. The room is silent but the air is not heavy, September sun keeps licking his face when the clouds pass it, and someone plays the piano upstairs. Finally, the man nods.

Casey smiles.

“I would like you to make an ArchiCAD model of the stage with all the details before next Friday,” he says and gives the pictures back to Nick. “With needed materials, et cetera. I’m 80% into this idea, Nicholas, nice job.”

“No problem, sir,” Nick smiles back and goes out of the room, feeling pretty exhausted, yet relieved.

‘Faust’ is not that kind of play to be counted as a successful one. Hell, even ‘King Lear’ is not, not anymore, as everyone loses their shit over some modern comedy crap or fake deep dramas starring boys with 10/10 faces. Still, Theaterъ leaves a stage for immortal classics, partly because of the staff, members of which are classically trained cranky intellectuals (except for Jo, Jo’s a fake), partly because they want it to be taken seriously.

Nick doesn’t need anyone to take him seriously, but the first and the last time he took over the set of some modern play was two years ago. He was not ready for ‘Miss Julie’ and chose ‘One dream, one band’ instead, a story about five boys becoming internationally famous superstars with their band called One Direction. That play, better known as a tv-show now; that play Louis Tomlinson found his way to the top with; that play that killed Nick’s faith in not only modern theater, but in the taste of the bigger part of modern society.

It was so shitty everyone ate it up in a moment.

Nick doesn’t want to be a moralist, but it’s not about a moral, it’s about the way of thinking, the way of sorting the priorities. If people cannot enjoy the classics, if they cannot find themselves breathless standing in front of Apollo Belvedere or don’t give themselves enough time to study Bosch’s paintings, if Shakespeare bore them to death and so do Beethoven’s odes; if none of those shake their hearts...alright, it’s never late to raise your taste, go download London Symphony Orchestra’s album on ITunes and maybe watch a documentary about Van Gogh, he’s been pretty popular lately.

But people never do, they don’t give a shit, they don’t understand why is it so important to be awed with sublime, to recognize the most excellent forms of aesthetics. Our souls have a need for beauty, and the more, the purer it is, the higher we stand as people, with our minds. It doesn’t mean you can’t listen to rap or love Banksy, it just means those should not be the borders for your vision.

That’s why Nick tries, tries so hard to make the plays more and more successful, so people know that Anna Karenina is not a writer, for example. So people know there should not be a limit for beauty.

“Are you going to eat this?”

He looks up and sees Harry’s face, both eyebrows arched.

“I uh,” Nick follows his gaze and realized he’s still holding the bell-pepper. “No, of course no.”

Harry chuckles and sits on Nick’s table, taking the pepper.

“So how was it?”

“Quite fine. Maybe good, even.”

“Fingers crossed then,” Harry shrugs and smiles. “Personally I think the idea is supercool.”

“Ah, young Harold—“

“You remind me of Oscar Wilde when you say ‘young Harold’.”

Nick blinks and looks at Harry again. He feels extremely slow, he can’t even come up with a reply at his usual pace.

“Looks like someone needs some sleep,” Harry’s face quickly morphs into a very worried one. “Want me to drive you home?”

“Don’t you have any work to do?”

Harry smiles widely again. Nick always forgets he’s his boss.

“Alright, you can drive me and finish your shit later but only if you take Pig and Stinky for a walk.”

“Deal,” he jumps off the table quickly and grabs their coats. “Now or..?”

“Yea,” Nick stands up, “let’s go, I think I can sleep for ages.”

“Wanna drink—“

“What, wine?”

Harry just grins wider.

“You just want my wine, dipshit.”

“You know I’m fucking poor Nick, I—“

“Didn’t say no.”

***

“Zayn says Louis was furious.”

“Oh I hope he was,” Nick snorts. “I bet he’s lost his shit _completely_ after realizing there’s no way he could sue me.”

Harry chuckles.

“Where’s the lie though.”

“He has so much power now, you know,” Nick says after a couple of moments. “He could do so much with his influence and talent, but he doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe he’s scared.”

“There’s no doubt he is.”

“Poor lad.”

Nick just shrugs.

“Whatever. It’s not my problem. Now, tell me darling, how’s Zayn?”

“I—“ Harry exhales and shakes his head, eyes following the road. “I’ve had it. Officially. I mean, I have no idea how to tell him I wouldn’t mind his dick in my throat while sober too, shut up!” he smiles when Nick starts laughing weakly.

“You pay for your dinners every time, right?”

“Yes! I even draw these stupid hearts and flowers on his cups when I come over with coffee! I just don’t get it, he tells me about his crushes when we’re out and then...you know what comes then.”

“Maybe he’s scared,” Nick mimics, getting a punch in his ribs soon after. “Watch the road!”

“No offense Nicholas, but I’m a better driver than you, you don’t even know how to use your car.”

“You don’t even _have_ a car.”

The space goes silent for a couple of moments.

“Get fucked Nick, I bloody hate you.”

***

The sky is pale when Nick opens his eyes the morning after. Stinky snores quietly somewhere in the left corner of Nick’s bed and Pig’s nails clatter on the floor in another room. September should be cold this year, but the leaves are still hanging on the trees, all brown and golden. The lack of wind, that’s why.

It sucks to wake up because there’s that awful taste in your mouth and your body aches and you’re hungry and most likely wanna pee. And tired. Nick’s always tired when he wakes up.

Still, with the familiar shiver down his spine from the feeling of cold floor, with a tear in the corner of his eye because Nick slept on his side, he stands up and goes to the loo, then to the kitchen, back to the bedroom, back to the steaming kettle, back to his bed with the phone in his hand.

And a cup of coffee. Nick hates coffee. But he has a terrible habit. He has a lot of terrible habits, like smoking right in his bedroom. Or ignoring messages. Or wearing old old socks (when they’re medium dirty). It’s his mom’s favourite terrible habit of Nick’s. He himself doesn’t really know how the fuck did he manage to become this disgusting, but at least it’s not underwear. Jesus Christ, how pathetic should you be to wear your old undies after a shower.

***

“Don’t you feel...a little lonely time after time?”

Nick furrows his eyebrows and says slowly, not looking up from the computer screen:

“It better not be another don’t-you-want-a-boyfriend conversation.”

“It’s not, I just...I don’t know. You feel lonely to me.”

“Personally I am feeling fine.”

“I know. I just don’t understand you,” Nick feels sorry for Fiona sometimes, she takes the whole mom friend thing way too serious. But, apart from sympathy, it drives him fucking crazy at the same time.

“You don’t have to, hon,” he says as kindly as he can, although he’s really pissed off right now. “Sooner or later I’ll find someone, but please, Fiona, for the love of god, stop trying to make me start looking.”

He finally presses ‘print’ and stands up, closing the final design of the stage he’s just finished. Fiona looks unconvincingly apologetic, and Nick just smiles, knowing exactly that the smile won’t reach his eyes. He’s had this conversation with each and every other friend of his, and by now they all should kind of know that he’s not that kind of man to seek for love, crave it and dream of it. He’s satisfied with his job, he adores his friends, he’d die for his dogs. He’s content. A lot of people don’t understand that it’s an essential in order to lead a happy life.

He doesn’t need anything else when twenty minutes later the set design for upcoming ‘Faust’ of Theaterъ’s is finally one hundred percent endorsed.

***

Evenings feel warmer than mornings, even if the temperature goes down. Nick makes a note to start wearing boots instead of sneakers and throws away the fag, then sniffs and claps his hands twice.

Two little hot balls of energy (and slabber) immediately fly back to him, jumping up and scratching his jeans with their dirty paws, and Nick goes absolutely defenseless, like he always does. The smile grows wider and wider on his face and never fades, as the three of them start moving towards their house.

He washes the pups and refills their water bowls, makes himself a coffee and sprawls on the sofa, with a book in his other hand. The house smells like autumn, proper autumn, because the radiators don’t work yet and Nick likes to leave the windows opened for hours. Stinky emerges from behind the sofa and makes his way to the woolen carpet in front of the fireplace, dogs’ usual spot in the whole house, and right after the thought of lighting the fire finds the approval in Nick’s head, his phone starts ringing.

“Harry? You alright?”

“Nick!”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes! I’m drunk!”

“You’re wasted.”

“I’m wasted!”

“You need a ride.”

“I need a ride...and I need you, because,” his voice suddenly changes into a much sadder and much, much more desperate one, “because I’m also sad.”

“Aw, darling,” Nick stands up and quickly walks to the hall, putting on his coat rather awkwardly. “It’s him again?”

“He’s shagging some girl.”

“Right in front of you?”

“I mean...I’m kind of happy for him, he looks...happy? God,” Nick knows for sure Harry’s pouting. “But I’m not happy for myself, y’know. Fuck—“ there’s an exhausted huff after that. “I forgot all the words, Nick.”

“I’m coming, love,” he’s already closing the door and slapping his pockets in order to find his car keys.

“Can I stay—“

“Of course you can,” Nick squeezes the phone between his shoulder and his ear to open the car’s door. “You know you always can.”

“I do,” Harry must be smiling with his dumbest, most disarming smile, and Nick feels himself grinning lightly too.

***

Nick knows where Zayn lives because of course of all people Nick knows, only Harry Styles can’t drink and constantly needs a ride. Well, okay, he doesn’t drink that frequently, but he still calls Nick a couple of times a month to inform him that he, Harry, is “sad”. After morning sex, after evening drinks, after afternoon coffee. Wherever, whenever. Zayn makes Harry “blue”, and Nick would hate him for that, no doubts, but...the guy’s nice. He’s nice to everyone who he thinks deserves that and it’s not his fault he’s not smart enough to open his fucking eyes and see that the treasure, that is Harry Styles, is right in front of him, aching and craving for him, just like he does for Harry.

And yet, when some guy opens the apartment’s door, it’s not Harry kissing Zayn on the couch, but some pretty blonde. Nick nods to the guy who’s visibly high, gets a thumbs up in return and starts moving towards Zayn’s bedroom.

There’s a little party going on here, that’s why there’re about twenty five people in the flat. Frank Ocean’s song is on, but, playing in another room, Nick recognizes Claude Debussy’s piano suite.

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath and opens the door, spotting Harry right away: in his worn-out black sweater, skinnies, half of the curls tied up in a little bun, half of them bouncing above his shoulders.

He plays nice, but he doesn’t care much, eyebrows furrowed and lips dry, eyes probably somewhere too far away: Nick can’t see. He waits and waits patiently for Harry to finish, partially because he respects the boy, partially because he likes Clair de lune and wouldn’t mind Harry’s play.

It’s interesting how every person lives their own life at the party. No, everyone lives a different life in general, but Nick has always found it amusing that while someone dances their heart out, in another room another person’s trying to get away with their broken heart. Amusing, but tragic at the same time. Even two drinking men drink for completely different reasons. One to forget, one to remember.

God. Too early for an existential crisis, Nick, _wake up._

“Hi there lovebug,” he says quietly and catches the green of Harry’s eyes immediately. The boy stands up smiling hazily and throws his arms around Nick, mumbling something against him. “What was that, hun?”

“I said I want a burger.”

“I have chocolate Oreos at home.”

“That’ll do,” Harry informs Nick after a couple of seconds and takes a step back.

“Ready?”

“Yea,” the poor boy nods, eyes numb but still heartbreakingly sad.

Just like dozens of times before, they’re leaving this place together. Zayn is nowhere to be seen, Gorillaz’s song is playing quietly from the kitchen. Nick takes the last look at the people: by the windows, on the sofa, in the corner on the floor, holding their charging phones. Some blue-eyed girl notices him and waves goodbye.

When Harry opens the door, Nick catches the look of another pair of piecing blue eyes and realizes they belong to Louis Tomlinson only when the door closes right in front of Nick’s nose.

***

“I think Zayn might think we’re dating.”

Harry freezes up. He actually looks like a lost baby deer, with a spatula in his hand and the whole sea of confusion in his eyes.

“Yesterday,” Nick opens the cupboard, “I noticed Louis Tomlinson shamelessly staring at us after we left Zayn’s room.” Then he turns the coffee machine on. “I thought a lot about Zayn’s impressive stupidity when it comes to you two and realized that he probably thinks you’re cheating on me with him or we have an open relationship—whatever, I’m almost one hundred percent sure he thinks we’re together.”

Harry blinks and looks at the clock. Then he frowns.

“How did Louis Tomlinson’s stare help you realize that?”

“No idea. It just did.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Nick chuckles.

“Fuck, I think you could be right.”

“Yeah me too.”

“Fuck!”

“You wanna talk to him?”

“Yes!”

“Will you make me breakfast first?”

Harry’s eyebrows jump up and he immediately goes back to french toasts he’s making, cheeks still pink after the sudden realization. His mouth opens exactly ten seconds later, and there he goes, rambling about Nick and him, him and Zayn, then Zayn alone, and Nick rolls his eyes, but like, in a kind way, with a smile on his lips.

***

“The DJ sucks.”

Liam rolls his eyes at Nick and takes a sip of his beer.

“You’re just tired Grimmy, go home and have a nap bro.”

He’d actually love to, because even though he sleeps like he always has been sleeping, the amount of work has been crazy lately. It’s always like that, he either doesn’t do shit at the theater, or he almost cracks up under the weight of his schedule.

Harry knows that but he’s also been trying to take Nick out for ages (a week) so he cannot leave, not until at least 11pm.

It’s 8.

“He’d suck even if I were someone’s sugar baby with absolutely no clue of what a fine DJ should be like.”

A couple of people around them chuckle and Liam sighs. Finchy then walks into the bar and shrugs off his coat, grabs a drink and furiously starts pamphleting about his new neighbours, followed by Aimee who absolutely loves to be a mom but has had _it_ officially too. Turns out they’re just three passive agressive middle-aged fucks, tired as shit but at least they’re far from the infamous crisis.

“This looks like a dick,” Alexa points at the wall with a poster of a beer made, apparently, of some plant that vaguely reminds of a dick.

“Alexa it does not, you’re just lonely.”

“Alexa this is so sad play Despa—“

“Shut the fuck up Nicholas.”

Harry listens to them and laughs, Zayn goes out with Nick to smoke, they drink a lot, and soon some heated excitement replaces Nick’s exhaustion. By 10pm the bar is full and their endless friends, freands of friends’ etcétéra keeps growing. Harry says, for the fourth time, that they’re celebrating “Faust”, and Nick honestly thinks that in his, Harry’s, head it probably sounds like they’re throwing a bacchanal or something. He’s even 80% sure he’s said that out loud.

“I just don’t want him to be so excited for a doomed play,” Nick explains to a guy who looks like a bad Dürer autoportrait.

“Thinking of a new start as of something doomed already won’t do you a favour mate.”

Firstly, Nick didn’t mean to cringe. He’s not ill-mannered, he was raised well, and even Louis Tomlinson doesn’t deserve a face from someone he had never, in fact, had a face-to-face conflict with, but fuck, he’s drunk, seemingly drunk, he’s tired and Louis is the last person Nick would like to see in this condition, so yeah, he cringes. First, because of this high-pitched squeaky voice just above his ear, and second... _who the fuck does he think he is._

“Well thanks, mate,” Nick says then, almost spitting the t out, “but what would do you a favour is minding your own fucking business.”

Louis’ face trembles but nevertheless, he smiles.

“I think someone’s had enough.”

“Nope, I’d fuck with you even if I were sober, and don’t,” Nick point up, “even try to make a joke on it.”

He doesn’t need to see Louis’ face so he doesn’t look and just walks away to the door, he knows he’d snap if it would go any further.

Cold air bites Nick’s cheeks when he steps out of the bar. Inside, he feels like he’s able to control himself, like almost sober, but in fact his limbs don’t really obey. He almost drops his lighter down and it takes him about seven tries to light his cig, but after that Nick just leans on the wall and looks up.

Of course no shit is seen above London, but it’s windy and purple clouds run fast on the weird darker purple of the sky. It’s the darkest it can get, no blue or black expected because of the city lights. Nick clenches his free fist in his pocket and blinks.

“Hey, do you have a spare cig?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

This particular emotion has probably just materialized on Nick’s face, because Louis huffs and tsks, it makes Nick looks down into his now dark blue eyes.

“What is your fucking problem with me?”

“Excuse me?” Nick knows he’s doomed. Ah right, just like the play.

“I don’t understand why do you hate me so much,” the sparkling irises of the boy’s eyes widen with angry, but almost pleading look, and Nick _almost_ feels guilty, because yes, he’s right, Louis has never done anything to Nick to be hated that way, but then Nick remembers the twitter fight, he remembers the band play and thousands of other terrible roles he got, remembers the disappointment; finally, Nick remembers the first time he saw Louis performing.

“Darling, trust me, you’re too pretty to hate you, but you’re right, I don’t love you either, don’t expect it from me just like from everyone else,” Nick strikes with every other word as hot clouds of air come out of his already chapped lips.

“And why’s that?” Louis’ cheeks redden in a matter of seconds and he pouts childishly, although his sharp cheekbones could cut better than a razor blade.

“I’m not gonna kiss your ass just because you’re now on the top due to the shittiest play of the twenty first century, especially after seing what you really can do,” Nick curses after realizing he’s just complimented him. “Oh my god, I really can’t believe you think you’re so fucking good it’s literally impossible to hate you for real, the only excuse for that ugly blog is that the guy just really wants to be famous, well newsflash sweetie, I don’t really need that blog now, also there’s no one else here,” Nick’s ears are burning just like his stomach as he throws his hand up to gesture around, “hope this time you understand me, honey, stop fucking doing Louis and do better, there’s so much more you can show, you infantile dumb fuck.”

“Nick!”

“Harold,” Nick spins around and answers momentarily, watching Harry’s blurred silhouette flying out of the door and towards him. “You know what I’ve had?”

Harry grabs Nick by the elbow, eyebrows fly up with concern when he glances somewhere behind Nick, probably at Louis.

“It?”

“It,” Nick nods and he’s absolutely wasted now, he doesn’t feel that fine anymore.

“C’mon,” Harry shakes his head and huffs, throwing his hand around Nick’s shoulder. He’s pale.

“I told him—“

“I know.”

“I feel better.”

Harry’s eyes widen up in surprise and he reflectively looks back. Nick sees the change in his face but he cannot understand it. Not in this condition. Maybe it’s his blood. You always feels worse when you stand up, drunk.

“Good,” he says, chuckling abruptly. His face is not disgustingly grey-coloured any more, but there’s a crease on his forehead and he’s staring at the ground as they walk.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Nick says quietly.

“Oh stop,” he shakes his head when Harry opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. “He’s not worth it.”

“What if he makes someone arrest you?”

“Arrest me?” Nick laughs and thank god, Harry smiles shyly too, rolling his eyes. “They don’t arrest one for criticizing some second-rate pretty theater boy.”

It’s almost midnight but the road is still busy. Nick puts a cigarette in his mouth and nods when Harry lights it up for him, even though he hates his habit. Their Uber is on its way, just like hundreds of other Ubers Nick follows with his gaze. It’s colder than usual, clearer, but it’s still doesn’t feel like midnight.

“I’d love it more if the city was less illuminated so the contrasts were stronger.”

“You hate everything.”

“Yes. But it’s just because I know how to make it better.”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to say anything else as their driver pulls over.

*** 

Life’s not that bad in the morning when Stinky wakes Nick up by licking his thumb. That’s pretty disgusting but still lovely, just like the better half of the things in Nick’s life; so no, no complaints.

As for the worst part, he doesn’t really want to check his notifications right now. He wasn’t that wasted to wake up and be suddenly informed that he fucked up last night, thank you very much. What’s the point of it anyway? To learn that he’s being sued? To get fired because everyone knows who he is right now? To read one hundred thousand messages promising to kill him?

That’s why he decides to take a shower first, he doesn’t need to be told he stinks of beer and probably middle-aged gay crisis. That’s what it’s like, one minute you think you’re on top of the world, all cool and collected, and independent too, and the moment later you realize how miserable and bored you are. One good thing is — you don’t owe anyone anything. And thank god he’s single. Much less problems behaving himself.

He’s also a big loser because he automatically takes the phone in his hands after talking off his bottom briefs to, just like he usually does, turn the “long shower playlist” on.

“Fuck.”

And nothing.

There’s nothing except a couple of tumblr reblog notifications, emails and whatsapp messages from his mom and Alexa; no Twitter icons replacing each other in a matter of seconds; no missed phone calls from Harry. Louis Tomlinson is either dead or for once in his life he decided to act like an adult. Oh, or he’s gonna sabotage Nick till the end of his life.

Pig runs up to him and presses her front paws against Nick’s leg.

***

Harry sends him a pasta tutorial on the instagram at four something pm.

_**was just going to order something** _

**_don’t feel like cooking_ **

_i do tho_

**_good for you_ **

_so i’m coming over then?_

**_be my guest_ **

Nick remembers the first time he met Harry. The shittiest school rec letter Nick could’ve ever imagined in the right hand, a strawberry frappuccino in the left and dimples in both cheeks as he smiled brighter than July sun in Turkey. Ah, and a headband keeping warm brown curls away from cascading right onto his face.

_“Really.”_

_“Good morning!” the boy exclaimed in return as Nick took a deep breath. “I’m—“_

_“Harry. Styles. Yes. It fits.”_

_Harry laughed then, no shade of offense in his blueish-green eyes._

_“Thanks!” but his face faltered a little after Nick closed the door and started locking it. “Why—Where—Am I fired?”_

_“You’ve never been hired, darling,” Nick chuckled and started walking towards the stairs. “C’mon.”_

_“Am I late then?”_

_“No, just in time, I was just planning to die of thirst, and then you show up with that,” Nick pointed at the frappuccino in Harry’s hand, “so we’re going to Starbucks.”_

_“Oh!” another exclamation. Nick remembers how with every other one Harry seemed lovelier and lovelier. “Yeah I agree, it’s fucking—oh my god, I’m so sorry—“_

_One look at Harry’s suddenly pale and purple face almost made Nick grunt with laughter but he furrowed his eyebrows first instead and then arched one of them, dead serious and almost disgusted._

_“Mister Styles, I understand it’s your first job ever—“_

_“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just—I know I messed up, please forgive me and let me, uh, let me buy you a drink? So we could start all over again?”_

_Nick stopped then._

_“Did you just offer to buy your possible boss a drink so he forgets that you shamelessly cursed in front of your said future employer?”_

‘Deer caught in headlights’ was not even close to Harry’s facial expressions at that moment, and Harry’s completely shocked and lost face when Nick suddenly bursted into laughter was the beginning of their brother-like relationship. Although sometimes, they both feel like each other’s children. Depends on the situation.

“I thought you were sick or something,” Harry yells, closing the door.

“I am sick, I’m starving to death.”

“Glad to know you’re fine,” with a smile, Harry walks into the living room and throws Nick a box of chocolate oreos. “Don’t die before the dinner. By the way...”

“I can’t here you-u-u,” Nick groans from his spot on the sofa as Harry walks to the kitchen.

“Come here then.”

Nick would sigh dramatically but Harry wouldn’t hear anyway, so he just rolls his eyes and stands up.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry says with his back facing Nick, already pouring water into a pan. “He didn’t even tell Zayn.”

“Can we not talk about this?”

Harry turns to him, looking surprised.

“I just don’t think I want to,” Nick shrugs, opening the oreo pack, “you know, think about it anymore. I think I don’t care either, it’s on him now. Come what may.”

“Come what may, yeah, you’re right.”

“First that twitter fight, then this comes up, too much Louis Tomlinson in my life.”

Harry chuckles and turns back to the cooker.

“I was surprised he didn’t tweet about that as soon as we’d left.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand what just happened,” Nick huffs.

“Maybe he was afraid of the consequences.”

“Why do we always come to the conclusion that Louis Tomlinson is a coward?”

“He’s not, he’s just not mature enough.”

“Look who’s talking, mister grown-up.”

“No shade but I’m one hundred percent sure your mental age is lower than mine.”

“All shade, Harold, you know we’re equally dumb.”

Harry shakes his head and bites his lip, hiding his smile.

“Hope you die alone, or no, hope you die shagging Louis Tomlinson.”

“Shagging?” Nick grins as Harry’s cheeks quickly turn pink. “Who even uses this world now?”

“Shut up!”

“No, seriously—“

“Shut up Nicholas, you’re intolerable!”

“Stop shouting, you’re scaring the dogs.”

“You two should marry.”

And suddenly there’s Alexa standing in the doorway, hands crossed, lips curled in a very bored and extremely unimpressed way.

“The door was opened.”

“Unfortunately, my heart is occupied with Louis Tomlinson, if you didn’t know, so, sorry Harold, plus you still don’t really know how to close the doors...”

“Jesus Christ,” she sighs and sits next to Nick, Harry rolls his eyes and mutters something about doing all the work. “Can you two explain where the fuck have you been last night?”

***

Alexa says that if no one by now has told anything to anyone, then no one most likely will. And if Alexa says something, it always ends up being right. She’s a woman after all, women are always right.

That’s why Nick really stops worrying. He goes to work, sleeps tight because works hard, smokes more than he eats in the morning but eats a lot for lunch. Nothing new, things go at their usual pace.

The casting process starts soon, and there are a lot of people there, surprisingly. Nick doesn’t participate in all that jazz but he likes the buzz in the theater, likes to watch from behind, he likes people. Familiar and unfamiliar faces Nick willingly encourages with a smile, a bunch of young boys and girls skipping their classes to try their luck for deeply background roles, and maybe most importantly, faith. He wouldn’t admit it, but maybe seing people auditioning gives Nick faith he keeps locked up in the darkest corners of his stupid pretentious mind. Even this little percentage of people learning words by heart, living inside of a character for a few minutes, hell, just getting up and coming to the theater, wishing to be heard, is enough. If it wasn’t, Nick would probably be an alcoholic.

Instead, he happily buys himself pumpkin spiced lattes every two hours.

He just got back from the coffee shop to be informed that Reetherman’s been looking for him.

“Mister Reetherman, good afternoon,” Nick says, flying into the audition hall, masterfully balancing the paper cup in his hand so nothing spills out.

God only knows how he does not hesitate when he notices Louis standing right on the stage, looking at him, blue eyes wide open.

Nick lets the eye contact last for not more than two seconds, then drops his gaze down and finally reaches Reetherman’s seat. Jo’s sitting next to him, lips already pursed.

“Nicholas, bloody hell,” the older man curls the corners of his lips, “the scent is amazing, you tease. I’m still in wonder how takeaway coffee taste and smell so good.”

“I could ask Valerie to brew you one,” Nick smiles in return, this man’s good mood is actually pricelessly adorable.

“Oh, thank you very much Nicholas, but I’m afraid Valerie’s freshly brewed coffee won’t smell half as excellent as yours. God only knows what’s inside these cups...”

«We’re also busy here, if you didn’t notice,” Jo says rather poisonously and points at the stage, the direction Nick has absolutely no intention to look in. “Testing the possible Faust.”

“Faust, really?” Nick professionally hides the amount of surprise he’s withstanding at the moment and calmly passes the required papers to Reetherman. “He seems more like a Mephisto type to me.”

“Nicholas, what do you know,” Jo’s voice sounds as if to say ‘Grimshaw shut the fuck up’ instead. “He doesn’t even look like—“

“Says the person who hasn’t even read the original play,” Nick solemnly marks Reetherman’s snort, but plays it cool anyway. “Have a nice day gentlemen,” he also nods in Louis’ direction, “Jo, you too.”

Nick lets himself smile from one ear to another when Reetherman barks out a whole laugh this time.

***

He’s smoking in the parking lot when they meet again a little later that day.

Nick doesn’t even know what to say, so he just looks at him, not even bothering to pretend he’s on the phone, busy.

Louis freezes, cigarette in his right hand forgotten, his left one thrown around his ribs. He’s leaning on his black Range Rover with his back and doesn’t even blink. The most interesting part of it all is that the look in his dark blue, in the shadows of the evening, eyes is uncertain, shy even, but still stubborn.

“I...” he starts but stops himself, and Nick wavers, not knowing how to encourage Louis to go on. Luckily it must be written on his face, because the boy clears his throat. “I don’t understand.”

Yes, he’s stubborn. And straightforward, but there’s nothing left from the usual snarky and cocky Louis Tomlinson Nick’s used to. It is almost an honour. If it wasn’t the exhaustion written on the boy’s face.

“You don’t understand what?”

“I don’t understand what do you want from me.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” he’s starting to get seemingly uncomfortable, so some kind of a toxic tone appears in his hoarse voice. “First you diss me for playing shitty lightweight characters, then you break into my audition for,” he waves vaguely, “and tell me I’m a demon and should not even bother with Faust. I don’t understand you.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you you’re a demon, Louis, I said you’d nail Mephistopheles.”

Louis stares at him, eyes unreadable. And then Nick realizes.

“Not everything people say is against you,” he says carefully. “In my case I just believe that Mephisto is a much more multifaceted and complex character and you’d have more fun with him than with Faust. But if you want to play Faust—why do you even care, in the first place?”

“I’m not having this conversation right now,” Louis says quickly, his sharp features soften a little as he looks down. “But if I would, I’d have to admit that even though you’re an asshole, I kind of value your opinion.”

He pulls out his lighter and lights his fag up again, breathing out purple clouds of smoke.

“You know they will give you whichever role you want.”

“The old guy said the same,” Louis still doesn’t look up, but there’s an ease in his voice. “He said, Mister Tomlinson, we know you understand that we’re happy to give you any part you’d like due to unfortunate materialistic circumstances, but I have to agree with Mister Grimshaw and would be happy if you audition for Mephistopheles’ role as well so both of us can see which one would be winning.”

“And you?”

“I agreed,” Louis nods and finally meets Nick’s eyes.

They look at each other for a bit, and this whole scene reminds Nick of some good ol’ indie drama.

“Good,” he breaths out, Louis nods again. His cheekbones are throwing almost black shadows onto his cheeks and his jaw, muffled brown hair and heavy brow ridges make his gaze deeper. He looks smaller standing by his car, smaller in his grey hoodie and jean jacket. Smaller, but older too.

***

Nick falls asleep listening to monologues and the only thing he knows after waking up is that Harry’s mad.

“It’s gonna end soon, you know that,” he says sleepily, body aching from sleeping on a theater seat. “The project is almost ready, the repetitions start in—“

“Spending every day here from ten in the morning to ten in the evening is not your responsibility.”

“If I want it to be good I have to control everything.”

“It _will_ be good. You don’t have to.”

“But I wanna?”

Harry tries to roll his eyes but from one corner to another he starts smiling.

“It’s impossible to be mad at someone who just woke up.”

Nick huffs and rubs his left eye.

“I want to die.”

“My condolences,” Harry says sarcastically and kicks his ankle. “C’mon, were going home.”

“Why are you so obsessed with taking me home?”

“Because you’re irresponsible and can’t take of yourself.”

Nick opens his mouth to object but Harry waves his hand and turns, ready to leave.

“I just found you passed out on the back seats of the venue. Everyone’s left thirty minutes ago.”

That’s when Nick for real realizes he really needs some rest.

***

He ends up taking a week off and going to Alexa’s country house.

The dogs are thrilled, Nick is cold but somehow happy. It feels like even the clouds of steam coming out his mouth are clearer, and when the icy air burns his lungs it feels refreshing, not painful or unpleasant.

He arrives in the morning and goes for a long walk with Pig and Stinky down the hills. His hands are clenched in the pockets of his coat and his thumbs are stone cold. He should’ve at least taken some warm socks.

Nick instinctively tries to hide his head and keeps his shoulders up, walking faster and faster as the sky, so disgustingly pale, so awfully empty, turns brighter, making ochre-coloured shreds of grass here and there on the sleeping ground look almost alive. But the only living things here are two little familiar silhouettes, waving their tales and barking deeply into the frosty air.

The tea feels hotter than usual, the loneliness of the house feels comforting, Nick feels sleepy and sick. The way from the kitchen to Alexa’s bedroom is all blurry and sore, almost feverish, but cool sheets bring him back to earth, and he falls asleep breathing in the pleasant smell of fabric softener.

He sleeps for seventeen hours that day.

***

A week is the exact amount of time for Nick to survive alone. The matter is not in loneliness but in his laziness and pathological disorganization of mind, that he learned once after his trip to the French Riviera. He rented a house in Grasse for a month, almost earned himself gastritis because he only ate chocolate bars and eggs, and one time he didn’t leave the house for almost a week because he had nothing to wear and the process of turning the washing machine on costed him those four days of procrastination.

Now though, it’s not a month, plus he has two dogs to take care of, so his getaway counts as a good one. He has his breakfast in a little coffee shop twenty minutes away from the house (luckily dogs are encouraged there), then watches movies on a tv that is probably older than Nick himself is, buys ready food in the supermarket in the evening and walks a lot, with or without Pig and Stinky. At the beginning he tried to disconnect from everyone, but his armada of friends that worry and wonder about him doesn’t let him, so he ends up online anyway.

The sleep is good, better than ever, now that he doesn’t have to wake up, wake up, wake up. Clearing your head is underrated, so when Nick arrives home, he feels not only better, but calmer too. He won’t tell Harry that, but he’s realized he doesn’t have to control every single detail the workers do. He’s spent too much time and power on the sketches and models and graphics, in the end it would be self-shaming too.

That’s what Nick’s thinking about, with London Philharmonic Orchestra album playing loudly from a speaker in his study. There’s almost nothing left to do for him apart from meeting the theater and technical directors and discussing the details of the set and the most winning artistic concept, but this all requires only a couple of hours a day. Harry’s somewhere probably with the costume designer or making each and every artist fall in love with him, so Nick’s just...thinking.

Until the door opens slowly. And Louis Tomlinson’s face with a very arched eyebrow shows up behind it.

He looks at Nick first, then at the speaker, and at Nick again.

“That’s hella pretentious.”

“I won’t argue, but in my uni years I realized I work better to classic music rather than to any other genre.”

“Probably because you don’t have to lipsync.”

Nick chuckles.

“Probably. But if it’s something extra solemn you still have to nod your head in the right rhythm, you know?”

Louis rolls his eyes and fully enters the room, closing the door.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile, thought you’d finally left,” he says teasingly, crossing his hands on his chest.

“Because you got the role?”

A smile lights up the boy’s face, a soft one, a little proud, a little shy, yet it changes into a little bit challenging one quickly.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Darling even Jo’s not enough to make me quit.”

Louis then breaks into laughter, his nose wrinkled and shoulders shaking.

“You’re a tough one then, because he seems like an absolute douche.”

“He _is_ an absolute douche, get used to it,” Nick huffs and shakes his head contemptuously.

“Will do.”

They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, while Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker goes on and on.

“Very Christmas-y.”

“Congrats on your role.”

Louis grins and Nick huffs again when they blurt it out at the same time.

“Thanks.”

“Christmas-y indeed.”

“I think it would sound like Christmas even if the story wasn’t, like, a Christmas one.”

“Yeah, exactly. Sounds exactly like a Christmas night would. Although I’m sure it’s more of a New Year story, Russians are not catholics.”

“Not an expert, but alright,” Louis says, opening the door. “Still Christmas-y,” he smiles, and his blue eyes disappear behind the door.

Nick hopes he somehow hears him smiling.

***

“Did I really see Louis Tomlinson leaving your office this afternoon or?”

Nick licks his bottom lip and adds more sugar to his tea.

“Maybe so.”

Alexa’s eyebrows jump up.

“So he doesn’t hate you?”

“Shouldn’t you care more about whether I hate him or not?”

“I know you don’t like him, so—“

Nick arches his eyebrows too and looks down, lips pursed, head doubtfully tilted to the left.

“What? Finally over it?”

“Yeah, exactly,” he says and takes a sip. “We talked. I don’t hate him now.”

“Good. And I have just started wondering when will you show up and start rambling about his “talented but dumb” ass,” Alexa mimics.

“As if you don’t think so too.”

“I do, for certain, but Nick, kids these days are keen for success, not art, it’s understandable. Don’t be so harsh on them.”

“You know, I obviously could, but then I would be—“

“Like everyone else?”

“Exactly!” Nick answers, fake-enthusiastically, making Alexa chuckle. “And now I’m one step more pretentious than y’all.”

“Fair enough,” Harry announces, walking into the kitchen.

“Thanks Harold, you’re a gem.”

“Did you know he doesn’t hate Louis any more?”

“I did,” Harry nods and earns two curious pairs of eyes on him. “‘cept I didn’t learn it from Nick but from Zayn.”

“Zayn?”

“Yeah. Apparently Louis told him that he’s glad you don’t seem as if you just saw bird shit on your shoulder at the sight of him any more.”

“Ah good,” Nick nods. “Very good.”

“So Zayn knows about the blog too?” Alexa asks Harry.

“No, I mean, I’m not sure of course, but he didn’t say a word.”

Nick purses his lips.

“So—“

“We just bumped into each other after his first audition and talked,” Nick interrupts Harry’s upcoming question.

“Okay.”

Alexa hides her giggle in the palm of her hand.

***

Snow hits London streets on Tuesday, and Nick breaths in its smell in the afternoon. It’s hard to explain,but the air smells different after it snows. When it stops and everything calms down.

It crunches under Nick’s boots, and he stares down as he walks to the coffee shop, listening to the sound while he can, until it turns into nasty squishing, probably soon, in the evening maybe, or the next morning.

The sky is blue and clear, and Nick feels like he’s in a beautiful 50’s postcard. The front mirrors of cars are covered in snow, so are the trees, still with tiny bits of leaves here and there. He takes his right hand out of his pockets and grabs a handful, thick, and cold, and soft, starting to melt immediately.

He buys himself a cup of hot chocolate for the first time this year and goes outside again. Leaning on the wall of the cafe, he lights up a cigarette.

And then Louis walks out of the door, with a steaming paper cup in his hand.

“Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Louis’ face lights up with a smile and he stands next to Nick, breathing out milky-white clouds of steam. “Could you hold it for a sec please?”

Nick nods and takes the cup, holding it with three fingers and his cigarette with the index and middle ones.

“Thanks, lemme just—“ the boy mumbles and puts a cig in his mouth too, lighting it up quickly. Suddenly Nick sees a couple of little snowflakes waltzing right onto Louis’ brown hair. It’s snowing again. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Nick’s voice comes out a little obscure as he gives the cup back. Louis smiles again. The irises of his eyes look bluer than ever and his cheeks turn more and more pink with every breath he lets out.

***

“Jesus fuck.”

Harry looks at the piece of paper Nick’s holding and bursts into laughter so loud it’s bloody unbelievable.

Nick closes his eyes and slowly buries his face in his palm.

“Of...of all puh-people...” Harry shrieks, but the sentence remains unfinished as his hysteria only seems to progress.

Playing The Secret Santa is adorable. It’s fun and sweet and brings families together. And friends. And coworkers. But Nick has never, ever in his life wished to be brought together with fucking Jo Merduck.

“I don’t even know what to do,” he says honestly. “Apart from shitting my pants and sending it to him wrapped in some cute silver paper.”

“It would be too nice, he doesn’t deserve cute silver paper,” Harry’s mug is completely red when he finally stops laughing like a maniac.

Nick sighs.

“And no one would switch...damn.”

“Buy him a lush bath bomb and a pair of socks.”

“I guess I’ll just go and fuck myself instead.”

“Might as well—“

“Wait who you got?”

“It’s actually The Secret Santa game, so—Dan,” he gives up and shrugs.

“Hey, you’re ruining the game,” Fifi tsks near them and then turns to everyone else in the Hall. “Guys please don’t share your names, for the love of god!”

Nick sighs and shakes his head.

“You have that Lush discount card, right?”

Harry giggles.

“Gemma’s colleagues give her thousands of Lush boxes every year, so you won’t even need it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for if I don’t find anything more interesting.”

“Speaking of interesting,” Harry’s face changes and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen this, huh?”

Nick frowns as he takes it in his hand.

“Buying a role in a classical play won’t buy you talent—what the fuck?” he murmurs and frowns harder, opening the article. “Louis Tomlinson [24] is—“

“Shhh” Harry hushes, “sotto voce.”

After reading the article Nick learns a couple of pretty interesting things. First of all, the cast has been officially announced this morning. Secondly, “Faust” is trending on Twitter because of one particular Mephisto-playing actor. Thirdly, he, apparently, thinks that Louis Tomlinson is a loser with no talent and brain.

Apart from lines and lines of miserable attempt of analyzing Louis’ personality, the author of it all blames him for buying his role, for trying to reach a higher position in the world of theater, but, nevertheless, it’s an opinion; the problem is, the article almost quotes Nick to say that without his fame Louis would be nothing, that his play is awful, etcétéra, etcétéra.

And Nick not only has never said that. Consider this: Nick knows that whoever calls Louis Tomlinson talentless is the last fucking fool, and he’s known that for awhile already, almost three full years. And even in his infamous “habit roles written for him” post he honest to god wrote: “the boy just wastes his giant potential”.

So yeah, Nick has all the rights to be on a verge of losing his shit after reading the conclusion of what Harry’s given him: “and not to quote _@heavytheaterlover_ , but yes, they’re right, he can buy whichever role he wants, but this ain’t gonna buy him no respect, no love, no art, and sure as hell no talent too.”

“What the fuck,” Nick repeats scrolling through the post again, then looks up, gaze chaotic. “I’ve never—you know I don’t—“

Harry answers him, but he’s doesn’t really hear it. He’s searching for someone his words are _really_ addressed, someone in a blue woolen sweater, looking down at his feet while everyone’s talking, someone who’s trying to wipe the heartbreak off his face as people make him answer them, someone a little too pale to be considered as unbothered at the moment.

“It’s not the only article on this, right?”

Harry breathes out and shakes his head, pursing his lips apologetically.

Nick hands him the phone and leans back, crossing his hands on his chest. He tries to catch Louis’ eyes but unsuccessfully, the boy just stares at Dan telling him something, and his blue eyes look almost through him, almost blindly.

“Fuck,” he murmurs and takes his own phone in his hand this time, opening Twitter.

 _@heavytheaterlover:_ i don’t care if you have an opinion but do not drag me into it by twisting my own words

 _@heavytheaterlover:_ i could write a pamphlet praising louis tomlinson’s talent but i’ve already did it a couple of times and your incapability of reading what’s written is not my fucking problem

 _@heavytheaterlover:_ not even reading between the lines: some of you lack the basic skill of processing the information, and i could only bring my apologies on that but

 _@heavytheaterlover:_ not after you fuck up my words and call it quoting

“Alright everyone,” Nick looks up when Fifi claps her hands. “Thanks a lot for gathering here, I hope y’all have fun, just like a year ago!”

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers right after her, Twitter dash opened on his phone. “Oh my god, you really just snapped, didn’t ya.”

“Honey if I told her her writing is terrible that would be a snap,” Nick wrinkles his nose and stands up. “I didn’t even read her, fact are facts.”

Harry looks a little bit relieved, and Nick just walks out of the door, his steps wide and fast.

***

In the afternoon, he’s buried in his big leather office chair, back facing the door, face in front of the window, legs thrown on the corner of his table.

The snow’s coming down again, each snowflake big and impossibly white. Unfortunately, the air is so mild it doesn’t have the time to lay down to the ground and stay there for a while, disgustingly wet dirt occupies the streets instead, but from his study Nick can’t see all that. He knows, but he doesn’t want to remember, so his gaze just follows those white soft looking swan feathers, captivated and mesmerized, and his body relaxes a little into the comforting warmth of old leather.

Nick’s eyelashes tremble slightly when the door opens, but he doesn’t really bother.

“I so don’t wanna move, you have no idea,” Nick says, when Harry closes the door. “I’ve been planning to open the window and have a smoke for the last fifteen minutes but I—I so don’t wanna move, god.”

“You can smoke in here?”

Nick winces when instead of Harry’s hoarse voice he hears Louis’ soft high tenor.

“I uh,” he clears his throat, feeling the tips of his ears turning pink. “No, I actually can’t, but I do sometimes you know, no one comes here anyway, except for Harry and Fifi.”

“I’ll open the window then?” there’s a smile in Louis’ voice, and Nick exhales.

“Yeah. And bring the ashtray, the second shelf of the...yeah, there.”

His gaze follows the boy’s small frame as he walks to the window, then he turns to Nick and leans on the windowsill.

“I don’t really want to talk about,” he waves and shakes his head a little, lighting the cigarette. “It just pisses me off when someone talks tries to speak for myself.”

Louis looks down and throws his hand across his stomach.

“I tried to not pay attention because I know you don’t think I’m a talentless fuck,” he smiles with a corner of his lip, “but it’s still hard.”

“You’re an artist, Louis, of course you can’t not give a shit.”

“I don’t even know why I came to you to be honest, because there’s really nothing to talk about. I chose these roles you hate so much because it was the only character I was sure I could do good and then you go like, what a dumb fuck, he could do so much more,” he mimics and shrugs. “And...shit.”

“I still don’t know why you care so much about what I think.”

“Is it so obvious?” Louis chuckles but there’s no shame or embarrassment in his features. It’s kind of daring, even.

“Hella obvious.”

“I don’t know. I feel like you believe in me although it also feels like you don’t want to. I mean,” he pauses and exhales, not able to find the right words. “I...I really don’t know. I just think you know what to do and you know what’s right. And you don’t buy shit. You see through it.”

“I don’t want you to waste your talent on bullshit, Louis. And if I had to trash you in order to get a result...”

Louis giggles, and Nick breaths out a laugh as well.

“That’s one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had.”

“I liked the first one at the parking lot as well,” Nick mocks and snubs out his cigarette, shivering a little.

Louis snorts and takes the last deep drag, breathing out into the window and closing it quietly.

“Still don’t wanna move?”

“I was actually gonna ask if you were going to go to the cafe because I fucking crave a cappuccino, but I’m not that comfy any more so I guess I’ll have to accompany you now.”

“And what if I don’t want you to?” Louis asks, his face properly comedically disgusted.

“Don’t need permission, darling,” Nick answers, winking at him and standing up.

***

Lots of people attack him that evening, but a lot more do support. Louis, especially. Fans are excited, to Nick’s kinda arrogant surprise, and hashtags are trending. Also, a dramatic entrance is always, always much better than an unproblematic one, and Nick’s glad the play is already pretty anticipated, but reading all those words of encouragement directed at Louis...is good. He thinks of texting him, but he doesn’t know what to say, plus he doesn’t have the boy’s phone number.

He doesn’t say anything about that when they meet the next day in the line for coffee too, but Louis doesn’t look that tired, and his hair matches the colour of Nick’s coffee, and even with his stubble he looks younger than yesterday.

They talk about snow and Harry and Zayn, and Nick is shocked to learn that Louis hates it, and it was not unexpected to learn that he was unsure whether Zayn should cross the line of being fuckbuddies with Harry or not because of Nick.

“You two just act...too gay, you know? With each other?”

“Harry acts too gay with everyone, Louis, I thought you’d know it by now.”

“By now — yes, but I didn’t interact with him as much two months ago.”

“Fair enough.”

Alexa comes over before the first day of The Secret Santa Week and they end up drinking with Harry, Annie and a couple of other friends at the bar. It’s not snowing, so the air is cold and Nick is extremely tired of changing his hands while smoking.

“You should quit,” Harry says drunkenly. “Both of you,” he looks at Alexa as well. “Less problems.”

“It’s poetic,” Alexa cuts him off mock-arrogantly.

“Art, a-art art art art, art she cat-cat-boom, oh she cack she cack-cack-cack boom,” Nick starts vogueing, and the three of them burst into laughter.

“I’ve always thought Nick should have been a drag queen.”

“Too bad she’d be the ugliest girl in the world.”

“Honey, have you seen your face?”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly what I think when I see you in the mo—“

“Shut up, you asshole!”

“Told ya, a destined drag superstar.”

“Natural fucking talent,” Nick sighs and finishes his cigarette.

“Daddy’s golden boy.”

“D’ya think he’s kinky?” Harry blurts our suddenly, and Alexa starts to giggle, bowing down.

“Jesus Christ,” it’s even worse after Nick’s exhausted moan.

“I think he forgot whether he is or not,” she squeezes out of herself.

“And I think you two should buy yourselves a dildo if your partners suck so much you can’t stop tryna get into my business.”

Alexa stops laughing, and Harry already looks like a beaten puppy.

“Nick, I wasn’t trying to—“

“It’s alright, Haz, I better just leave you two alone, and don’t forget to call Fifi,” he cuts him off, heading towards the big road. “She bloody adores this conversation as well.”

“Nick!”

Nick rolls his eyes and keeps walking faster and faster with each step.

“Nick,” it doesn’t help though, Harry’s already right behind him, keeping up easily. Of course he is, the motherfucker.

“We’re both drunk Harry, we’re gonna be fine in the morning.”

“I don’t want you to come home and be sad again.”

The words are so simple and honest it makes Nick freeze up.

“I’m not sad.”

“You are sad.”

“I’m not sad because of that, I don’t need anyone.”

“I know you don’t,” Harry almost whispers and then pulls Nick into his arms. “You’re sad when people talk about that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“You should be,” he mumbles into Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m just drunk.”

“Is that an excuse?”

Harry chuckles and shrugs, letting him go.

“It sounded like one in my head.”

“Things always sound different there, I agree.”

“Don’t be sad.”

Nick give him a smile. An honest one, too.

***

It’s entertaining to see everyone finding presents here and there, at their office doors, tables in the cafeteria, or from someone who’s been asked to be a postman. Everyone’s waiting for Friday impatiently, the last day before a break, and the day of The Secret Santa reveal.

Alexa finds her present wrapped in her own scarf. It’s a yin yang ring, pretty simple but not in a bad way, and she smiles when it fits perfectly. It’s probably from Justin, the boy from cafeteria that they once talked about the harmony of the dining tables. In her turn, Alexa gave a tremendously pale and invisible, but still extremely cute girl from the operator’s team an eyeliner and a peach-coloured sweater with her a patch she created herself. She says the girl should know it’s from Alexa, because once she told her peachy colour fits her a lot. But it was a long time ago, so.

Harry gets an olive-coloured, an extremely exquisite shade of olive-green coloured, headband, made of the softest fabric Nick has ever touched, and refuses to lose his shit for two days because he has no idea who’s his Secret Santa. He almost gets caught by Dan after leaving him a bag of candies and a little Sunshine Demeter Fragrance, because Dan is a little piece of sunshine and Harry doesn’t want him to forget it. He’s extremely satisfied with himself, but he won’t shut up with his conspiracy theories too. At the moment, he loves the headband more than anything else (except his sister and mom), but it’s killing him at the same time. Bad for him, well.

And then there’s Louis.

They’re walking out of the cafe together, with cups in their hands and start moving towards their usual smoking spot, when Nick notices a medium-sized red box there, on a stone windowsill nearing the corner. Louis’ eyes brighten up.

“Oh god, finally,” he breathes out and hurries towards it, and Nick chuckles, following him. “I mean I hope it’s for me because c’mon, it’s Thursday already, tick tick motherfucker,” he rambles excitedly, and he looks just like a little child when the box finally gets into his hands. “Yes! Look, it’s for me!” he shows Nick his name on the present, written in a nice and clean font. Louis’ face is shining, fondly and happily, and Nick feels himself smiling too. His eyes are irresistible, two big blueish diamonds under a soft mop of brown hair.

Carefully, he takes off the red wrapping paper, and opens the box, eyes widening up in surprise.

The two of them stare at the pair of simple grey gloves.

“You’re my Santa,” Louis then speaks, looking up at Nick.

“What? No.”

“Yes you are! You told me I should by gloves because my hands are always freezing, remember?”

“No, I mean yeah, I remember, but I’m not your Santa—“

“And you’re the person I always smoke here with, no one else could leave it here. And you went to the bathroom when I was ordering!”

“First of all, I know it looks like this, but no, trust me, I’m not your Santa, plus the enter is near the cashiers, you’d see me.”

“You—“

“I’m actually Jo’s Santa, I think I’ve told you this, no?”

“Jo’s?” he stutters, and then bursts into laughter. Nick rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, la fortuna is a bitch.”

“Jesus.”

“Gbye.”

“My condolences.”

“Y’all better stop telling me this all the time, I know I suck but not that much.”

That makes Louis laugh harder, and Nick just pulls out a cigarette, annoyed, but like, in a soft way.

“Glad someone else sees that you needed those,” he gestures to the gloves. “I bet you wouldn’t buy them even if your knuckles would bleed out every single day.”

“Piss off, but yeah, they’re nice,” Louis runs his thumb along the glove. “Have you given Jo his present yet?”

“Yesterday,” Nick days after a short nod and purses his lips when Louis looks at him expectantly. “Well at first I wanted to not give a fuck and buy him a Lush box, but fuck, even Jo deserves a nice present, so I bought him two toys for christmas tree decoration.”

“Christmas tree decoration?”

“He...he loves decorating christmas trees, that’s all I know about him. He doesn’t let anyone else do it and does it himself for the theater every year, and at home too, he buys real trees, by the way, hates plastic ones. He loves shitting those giant trees they put in squares and streets, I heard him talking about that with Reetherman once. I actually agree with him, a lot of them are ugly.”

Louis looks at him with an unreadable emotions on his face.

“I just saw a pretty Crystal Ballerina and a well-made Tin Soldier, thought they should be together, with someone who’d know that too. Jo was the first and probably the only person who came to my mind. And I know that the ballerina was made of paper in the story, you don’t have to argue.”

“Wasn’t even planning to,” the boy says, and there’s something new in his voice.

“What? What did I do?” Nick asks quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t understand what you’re thinking.”

“Well of course you can’t,” Louis grins. “It’s my head.”

***

And, in the end, there’s Nick, who steps on his present in the morning of an extremely cold Friday.

He’s already overthought the fact that his Santa apparently was not keen on the idea of giving him his fucking present last night, so he considers this a positive thing, even if he accidentally broke it after opening the door of his office. The package, wrapped in emerald green paper and with a matte golden ribbon tied up around it, is absolutely flat, a 40x40 square, or at least something around it.

Nick closes the door with his leg and quickly shrugs off his coat.

He unties the ribbon first, then carefully starts to take off the paper. The process of unpacking is not less pleasant than seing the present itself, so he takes his time.

And then sees a vinyl CD and everything is as clear as day.

It’s a Nutcracker CD, conducted by Andre Previn, with the Sugar-Plum fairy on the cover. It looks old, the whites are brownish-yellow and the corners are a little bit battered. And it smells like an old bookshelf.

Nick can’t stop smiling.

***

The Santa Reveal is the only thing they’re all there for that day, so at 12pm Nick and Harry are already in the smaller hall of the theater.

“I have no idea who’s mine, I honestly do not,” Harry rambles, hands crossed on his chest and shoulders tensed. “Zayn says I’m being overdramatic, but it’s really important for me, looks like I really have no idea who my friends are, what they think of me and—“

“You’re being dramatic,” Nick gives him a short nod and continues with no hesitation. “Harry you can’t know every single person who works here, calm down.”

“I don’t even know what to say there!”

“I—“

“Wait, how ‘bout you? Did you get your present?”

Nick blinks and feels the corners of his lips curving up again.

“What?” Harry’s starting to grin too.

“Nothing.”

“Nick!”

“What? I got my present, yeah, I think it’s Louis.”

Harry’s eyes widen up.

“You think it’s Louis?”

“Harold what’s the point—“

“Oh piss off! It’s sweet though,” Harry’s really smiling now, his cheeks pink and eyes greener than a stormy sea.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s sweet that he’s your Santa.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. You seem to get along well.”

“We get along well with you too, I don’t see nothing sweet—“

“It’s still different,” Harry giggles and looks into Nick’s eyes playfully.

“I don’t—“

“Nevermind, Nick, it’s just sweet.”

They sit in silence for ten or fifteen seconds, and then Nick snaps again.

“No, I seriously don’t get it—“

“Guys, I think we can start now!” Fifi then greets everyone, and all Nick hears is Harry’s childlike laughter.

He doesn’t laugh at all when Fifi says his name after Dan successfully announced his present. The boy stands up, followed with Nick’s satisfied shit-eating grin, and clears his throat nervously.

“I, uh, I got a headscarf, a very nice, wonderful, green headband, well, not really green but like, olive green, I guess? But like not cold olive green but a warmer ochre-brown-green-ish one? And it’s enormously soft and silky, but I don’t think it’s made of silk, maybe satin with something else, you know, because it’s not like, it doesn’t have that full satin glow? It’s just...”

He’s a mess, and Nick reaches out to squeeze his hand in order to calm him down a little.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out and swallows. “I’m actually nervous because I have no idea, absolutely no idea who to thank for it, I’ve been thinking for the whole week and...and nothing comes up in my mind, I’m really sorry, whoever has sent it.”

The hall is silent for a couple of seconds again, and Nick squeezes again.

“Harry, do you remember two years ago I told you you look good with a headband?”

And then everyone stares at Mister Reetherman, sitting almost in the corner, above everyone else.

Harry’s eyes in particular remind Nick of two giant round bottoms of a green bottle.

Reetherman smiles with his kind, Dumbledore-ish smile, a constellation of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are visible even from the distance.

“I really would like to see you wearing them again time after time.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, like a fish, no sound escaping his lips.

“Sorry I just...I liked it a lot, I loved it actually,” he finally manages to the sounds of everyone’s aws.

“I can tell,” the old man nods, “by the way you described it. I’m really glad you did.”

“Yeah, I—yeah,” Harry’s face is already bright red. “Thank you.”

He wavers awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his limbs, and then sits back, still kinda shook.

“Holy shit,” he whispers when Fiona asks Reetherman to tell everyone what he’s got. “I didn’t know he’s in the game. He’s never played with us.”

“You’re a lucky little motherfucker,” Nick whispers back softly, chuckling. “I think I’d have a heart attack.”

“I did,” he shakes his head. “And a couple of nervous breakdowns in two seconds.”

Nick laughs and runs his hand down Harry’s shoulder.

A girl Nick has seen a couple of times in the theater, who probably has something to do with the lighting, gave Reetherman an album of Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations for Salome, and he successfully guesses it’s from her because in spring he told her he loved Wilde’s Salome above any other of his works. Nick wonders what was the context, but it not his business after all, he just watches the way Reetherman interacts with her in an awe.

Harry’s shivering in anticipation when Jo reluctantly stands up.

“I got two toys for Christmas tree decorating,” he says straightforwardly, but then takes a breath and continues. “A ballerina and a soldier, both...honestly very and very beautiful. I was pretty surprised, but pleased too, and I would like to thank my Santa, although I don’t have a clue who’s that, for those. I didn’t know anyone...anyone knew I’d love them.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick waves at him, and he’s not surprised to hear people’s confused sounds. It’s satisfying to see Jo’s face though, there’s a fight between The Good and The Bad written on it, and finally the latter loses it.

“Thank you, mister Grimshaw. I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Nick answers, and answers honestly. “I, myself, got a vinyl recording of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, an old, pardon me, a vintage one, with The Sugar Plum Fairy on the cover, and that was the key for me. I guess it’s from Louis.”

Louis’ face lights up and he nods, all cozy and warm and happy in his burgundy sweater.

“Thanks darling, it was very sweet of you,” Harry chuckles at that.

It’s Louis’ turn after Nick, and turns out it’s Eleanor who plays Helen of Troy in Faust who gave Louis the gloves because she noticed his hands are always cold on rehearsals.

“I don’t really know you personally, so I’m sorry for not being able to pick you something more like, interesting,” she smiles at Louis, and the boy shakes his head, telling her he was absolutely one hundred present happy to get them because it was just what he needed.

Louis sits down and when they look at each other, Nick realizes he’s been watching him. He gets a smirk and gives one back.

***

“Any plans for the break?” his blue eyes look absolutely grey under the evening sky. Nick loves the way that particular pair of irises changes under different skies, under different lightings. One day, Nick remembers, they were green, like Harry’s, and now there’s nothing but grey, noble and lively.

Nick blinks, reminding himself that he should answer.

“Ah wait, Zayn’s told me Harry goes somewhere with you and his sister, right?”

“Yeah, to Greece,” Nick nods. His sister and her friend, too. How ‘bout you?”

“Zayn and I are going to Doncaster, gonna see his parents and stay there until his birthday probably, and then come back.”

“It’s in January, right?”

“Yeah, January 12. By the way, we’re gonna throw something as for both our birthdays, you should come. Zayn would love to see you too, since you don’t hate me anymore,” Louis winks at Nick then playfully.

“I like it how sure your voice sounds,” Nick grins just to get The Louis Tomlinson shock: the boy’s lips form a perfect o, his eyes widen and lips break apart.

“Priceless. I’m on my knees. It’s an honour to have you for an actor in our humble habitat.”

“We’re pleased, too,” Louis laughs shortly, his cheeks reddening and reddening with joy.

“When’s your birthday by the way?”

“December 24.”

“No shit.”

Louis chuckles and nods, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“That’s strong. Wait, are you a Sag or a Cap?”

“Oh my god.”

“Aite, I can google—“

Louis tsks and rolls his eyes.

“I’m a Cap.”

“Interesting,” Nick grins again.

“What, gonna tell me—“

“No, I’m not, I don’t define people by their sign.”

“And what was that for then?”

“Dunno. Sometimes I notice some parallels. Especially between like, the elements.”

“And you’re?”

“A Virgo.”

“Jesus Christ, stop brainwashing people,” Alexa appears then out of nowhere, with a cigarette between her lips already.

“It’s not brainwashing, you just don’t get it,” Harry walks out of the door after her, and Nick gives Alexa a finger. Louis watches them with a smile on his lips.

“She’s a Scorpio,” Nick tells him.

“Goddamnit,” she mumbles. “I need new friends.”

“As if you have any.”

“Yeah,” Harry cheers, “you’re a bloody Scorpio.”

“I like Scorpios,” Nick arches his eyebrow.

“Me too. Except—“

“Alexa,” they say in unison, whilst Alexa just looks at Louis with an absolute poker face. An existential poker face, to be more specific.

“My condolences,” Louis purses his lips apologetically.

She blows him a kiss in return.

*** 

When Nick asks Harry for Louis’ phone number on December 24th, he doesn’t even think that it would be weird to call him. They talk for about two minutes, just a regular phone happy-birthday call, but it’s enough for Nick to learn that Louis has a pup.

All in all, their WhatsApp conversation starts with a picture of a dog.

They talk about the sea when Nick’s in Greece and Louis tells him about Bradford, where Zayn’s parents live. The conversation flows into Greek boys and girls and mythology, and Nick discovers that Louis is, in fact, ridiculously bisexual. Into Turkish sweets and cheese. Into British airways. Into beer and cider. Into astrology. Harry. Zayn. Harry and Zayn. Zayn’s birthday. A lot of things. Millions of things. Songs Nick finds. Nick’s blog. Twitter fights. Morning selfies. Evening bars. Half-drunk audios.

“I’m not surprised you’re friends with him now,” Harry says once, when the two of them are sitting on the balcony outside their hotel room in the middle of the night, passing each other the second blunt. “You hate almost every single person before letting them in.”

“Maybe so,” Nick shrugs, breathing out. The crickets are loud, the air smells like roses and delphiniums, the sky is black, apart from little diamonds blinking at them indifferently. “But I didn’t hate Alexa as much as Louis.”

“I think you hated Louis the most, but for understandable reasons. What were you like before the One Direction play?”

Nick licks his lips.

“Dunno. I thought he was talented. And pretty. That’s all. We’ve never really talked, didn’t have to.”

“And you didn’t wanna?” Harry looks mockingly surprised.

“No.”

“But you always do, if you find someone attractive.”

“Well back then I didn’t. I just liked watching him.”

They sit in silence for a while, the sound of burning weed and paper when one of them takes a drag cuts the air, in a pleasing way.

“Sounds lonely,” Harry says quietly.

Nick chuckles, and there’s something sardonic about it.

“Did you know Louis was an orphan?” Harry asks suddenly.

“What? No, I didn’t, but—“

“You could’ve guessed, yeah,” Harry murmurs.

“That explains a lot, I mean.”

“It does.”

“He had Zayn’s mother for a teacher in the orphanage, if I’m not mistaken. They go there together every year to celebrate their birthdays.”

“It’s as heartwarming as it is heartbreaking, you know.”

“Exactly!”

“And now I don’t even know what to say.”

“I don’t think Louis is that kind of the person who’d allow you to pity him.”

“That was fair, Harold.”

“Good ‘cause I’m stoned as fuck right now.”

Nick smirks to himself and lights up a cigarette this time. Cool breeze kisses his neck and cheeks and knees, skin still a little soar from sea water; body pleasingly exhausted after swimming and playing beach volleyball. The stars are still cold and distant, but they let him stare. Billions of flowers in the gardens around them sacrifice themselves, for the air is so sweet you can taste it on your tongue. And now, it’s enough.

***

After a week of going to the cafe alone Nick is excited to see Louis. He thinks of how quickly one can attach to the presence of the other when he hears the familiar a little tired tenor coming from the hall. The repetition must’ve started already, and Nick doesn’t really have to be there at all, and yet.

He walks in.

“If I were the one buying a role I would at least try to pretend I didn’t,” that’s the first thing Nick understands that is coming from the man standing in front of Louis, with his back facing the door. “And now not only you have the most important part of the play and no call of duty, you also—“

“What the fuck is going on,” Nick barks out, loud enough for everyone else surrounding the two to hear, surprisingly enough for himself to notice.

“Nothing,” Louis’ talking now, his face green and eyes even emptier than his voice. “Someone just can’t stop being bitter because they didn’t get my role.”

“Yeah, ain’t got that much money, you know,” the man, who turns out to be The Student in the play, says smugly, ignoring Nick, but there’s nothing written on Louis’ face. It’s good but absolutely terrifying at the same time. Harry looks like this when he’s fucking wasted and is about to throw up.

“Sure it’s money you’re lacking?” Louis only says instead, and the little crowd reacts immediately. Nick sees the man, Chris, starting to lose his shit a little helplessly, but then Jo emerges out of nowhere and starts a whole show, shouting something at Chris, furiously. Harry’s somewhere there at the door, watching all that with wide eyes, but when Nick looks back at Louis, no one’s standing there any more.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts scanning the hall’s entrances, until he spots a small figure walking out of one of them quickly. “Goddamnit.”

He successfully gets past all the people enjoying the show, flies out of the hall and runs towards the stairs, just to hear quick steps somewhere around the third floor.

“Lewis!” Nick calls, jumping over and over two steps. “Lewis I’m not that good at running, ya know my lungs are dead!”

“Leave me alone then!” the answer comes from the distance, and Nick rolls his eyes, still climbing up.

The thirds floor is mostly occupied with the costume room, and the scene is pretty damn theatrical: Nick, between all those endless racks and hangers, maneuvers towards aggressively looking Louis Tomlinson, standing nearby the wall with his hands crossed and lips wide shut.

“You’re not the one who’s opinion matters.”

“I know,” Nick shrugs, catching his breath. “Now what?”

“Now what what?”

“What were you planning to do here? Hide?”

“Piss off.”

“Fine, we can sit here too.”

“Leave.”

“No.”

“Leave!”

“I cannot,” he slowly shakes his head, eyes glued to Louis’ irises, looking almost purple in the deep shadows of the room.

He’s mesmerized with that soft blue glow.

Probably that’s what breaks him.

Louis doesn’t hesitate when Nick takes a step closer and covers his lips with his own, as if he knew all along. As if he knew Nick would shiver a little the moment he’d feel the butterfly touch of Louis’ eyelashes on his cheek, feel fingers on the collar of his shirt, feel the confident press of chapped lips against his own. Louis’ tongue slips past his teeth, and instead of melting into the kiss, into the warmth of this handsome little problem, he tenses, suddenly realizing what’s going on.

“No,” he breaks the kiss and takes a couple of steps back. “Louis, no, I’m not the right pearson.”

“The right person for what?” the boy asks, his breath shaky and voice hoarse, and the fact that it’s Nick who did that to him is beyond marvelous to realize. And yet.

“I’ll hurt you,” he tries to explain, gesturing vaguely. “I...I suck at this, I don’t want anything serious, trust me, you don’t want it like that—“

“Fuck you think I want anything serious?” Louis chuckles, no smirks, no grins, just a chuckle, and then cool fingers are cupping his jaw again, the faint of cigarette smoke is back on his lips, the boy’s raggedly rising chest is against his, and Nick finally lets go of himself.

He lets his left hand find its way to the small of Louis’ back, pulling him closer, feeling every movement, every little vibration of the other body, while the right one is already tangled in the always soft-looking warm brown hair, neither caramel, nor chestnut, but something in between. And of course it’s soft, a little dry of course, like every other boy’s, but still soft.

Unlike the kiss. It grows hotter, more desperate with every second, as Louis’ hands slide down Nick’s neck, clutching the fabric of Nick’s shirt, leaving no space between them at all. Nick starts pushing the boy’s smaller body back towards the wall, and Louis complies easily; his desperate gasp is hoarse when Nick pulls his hair a little, having a handful of it in his fist, to have a better access to the curve of Louis’ neck.

“Interesting,” he mumbles before kissing the soft skin there and smiling into it after he feels the shiver going down the boy’s spine.

“Asshole,” Louis can only breath out, but his fingers feel beyond greedy on Nick’s thighs, and—

“Nick? Louis?”

They let go of each other in a matter of a second, and thank god it’s dark in the room. With the corner of his eye Nick notices that Louis is trying to do fix his hair, sticking out in all the possible directions, and if it wasn’t for Harry, he’d cackle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Louis squeaks, clearing his throat immediately.

“We’re talking,” Nick announces, his heart calming down slowly.

“Ah. Okay,” Harry says, still standing in the doorway. “Come back Louis, he ain’t worth shit.”

“Uh-huh,” Louis chuckles, a smile rising up on his face.

“Don’t worry,” Nick nods, too.

“Aite,” he nods then and waves a little, leaving them alone again.

They remain silent for about fifteen more seconds.

“Do you think he—“

“No,” Nick shakes his head. “He’s hella cockblocker, but a dumb one.”

The boy’s laugh lights up the whole room.

***

It’s weird how unbothered they both are after the costume room scene, how they don’t even have to pretend it didn’t happen, as neither of them seem uncomfortable or different.

Nick is totally fine now that he knows Louis is a great kisser and likes his hair to be pulled, and that’s all. He realizes he doesn’t want and need more when they discuss latest cinema listings on their break, and after an evening of a fucked up analysis Nick comes to the conclusion that both of them were just wondering. If it was something else, Nick’s heart would’ve been broken already, right after Louis let him know he doesn’t need shit from him. And it’s not. It’s pretty fine, his heart, beating in one steady rhythm, no matter who gives him a greeting hug in the morning —Harry or Fifi or Louis Tomlinson.

It’s a good sign.

The only bad one is that Nick doesn’t really want to tell Harry about the kiss, and no, they don’t share everything with each other, but if Louis tells Zayn and Harry learns from him, his ethereal heart may be a little...upset. And Nick doesn’t know what to do because having this conversation with Louis is not that thing he’s very keen on doing too.

And of course he decides to ignore the problem.

And on Friday evening Nick drives to Harry’s to pick him up, grant him  
with his driver’s seat and go to Louis’ country house, where the celebration’s gonna take place.

“What did you get them?” Harry shoots right after collapsing into the car.

“Those video games you told me Zayn liked and a scarf for Louis.”

“You hate that black one he wears, don’t you?” he grins.

“Of course I do hate it, it’s fucking ugly,” Nick huffs. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”

“I do,” the boy shrugs, looking at the road.  
“It’s really ugly.”

“And what did you buy for Louis?”

“Zayn told me to buy a dildo but I decided to buy it for him instead, like a Christmas present,” Harry smirks, and Nick knows he’s not kidding.

“For both of you, you mean.”

“Yea, I mean, we love each other, right?” not even a shade of pink on Harry’s pale cheeks. “Plus it’s really cool, looks like a candy cane, called Pleasure Wand.”

“A candy cane?”

“Yeah, like, a proper glass one.”

“How adorable.”

Harry laughs and turns to the highway.

Nick looks at the sky, almost dirty yellow in the middle of London.

“I hope we see the stars.”

“Huh?”

“I said I hope we see the stars from there. The country, I mean.”

“I think so, yeah. Pity we can’t stargaze like we used to in Greece.”

“God,” Nick chuckles. “Yea, pity. It must be fucking freezing there.”

“Not after a couple of vodka red bull shots.”

“I don’t get it, why do people drink it as shots? Drinking the whole glass is...more effective? And pleasing? Like, shots supposed to be hard to drink.”

“Fuck, I’ve never thought of this. You’re actually right.”

They go on and on like this, and there were millions of perfect possibilities for telling Harry about the kiss, but it would actually be absolutely pointless, he realizes again and again after all the chances passes by. Nick doesn’t want to talk about, he ain’t got no problem with that and neither does Louis, so maybe...maybe no rushing things up.

They arrive at ten something pm, hungry as fuck and a little exhausted, but the dim lights of the windows with blurry silhouettes streaking off inside look inviting. There’s snow everywhere, but not loads of it, the streets are just not cleared, drowning in the calm silence of the countryside. It’s not that cold either, no frosty wind and violent bites on the cheeks and hands, just a soft coolness of winter.

Harry lets Zayn fall into his arms almost immediately after stepping into the house, and even though there are people Nick knows and would technically love to converse with, he decides to search for food first.

Louis greets him with a grin and tries to look offended when Nick makes him promise to not wear his black bloody scarf any more now that he has a new one, but some other gays arrive soon and he excuses himself, finally letting Nick finish his mission. And then yeah, there he is in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, surrounded by half friends half acquaintances who listen to him talking some shit with a serious face and gesticulating aggressively, with a slice of pizza in his left hand.

Some people enjoy quiet conversations with glasses of wine. Some play videogames. Some dance by the Christmas tree in the corner of an actually giant sitting room, sharing a joint. Zayn’s cousins decide to play beerpong, even though a lot of people including Nick roll their eyes and arrogantly inform everyone that it’s not some college frat party.

Nick singlehandedly beats Zayn in the fourth round.

***

At two am Nick’s hungry again, so of course he practically stumbles out of the house, because it’s almost impossible to breathe inside, and he, like every other man, kinda feels drunker when it’s hot.

He lights up a cigarette on the front porch and looks up. The starts are bright on the cloudless sky, and small flakes of snow make their way on his nose graciously. At this moment Nick feels like in a postcard again.

And right after this thought Nick smells meat.

He frowns and takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help: the air really does smell like it does in Shake Shack, and suddenly Nick hears Kendrick Lamar, but not from inside the house, but somewhere around him, outside.

He slowly lights up another cigarette and carefully comes down the porch, still not one hundred percent ready to take a good care of his limbs. And thank god he doesn’t have to go far, because right after passing the corner Nick sees the one and only Louis Tomlinson, leaning above the meat, sizzling in a grill, and performing some extremely awkward dance moves to the music.

“What are you doing?” he calls the boy not that loud, but he still winces.

“F-fuck,” Louis breathes out, eyes mirroring the house lights. “You scared me,” he’s also a little crimson now.

“My apologies,” Nick grins, stepping closer.

“I’m uh, I’m making burgers.”

“Are you high?”

“A little?”

“Need help?”

“They’re almost ready,” they both look down, and it’s not meat but actual patties on the grill. That explains the Shake Shack smell. “We’ll just move to the kitchen, ‘s all. Is it still crowded?”

“Dunno. I saw a coupla dudes left and some are asleep, gamers and stoners are in the living room, Zayn and Harry are probably fucking upstairs.”

“God,” Louis giggles. “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” Nick grins and runs his fingers through his hair. “C’mon, they’re ready.”

“I hope there’s still some beer left.”

“Hopes die last,” Nick just shrugs and holds the plate while Louis takes the patties off the grill.

The kitchen door is opened and Louis sighs a little, there are a couple of girls with wine glasses full of vodka red bull laughing there.

“Okay, listen,” he whispers, stepping back towards the stairs. “If you want a burger, you take a tomato, a cucumber, two bottles of beer, salad and cheese, ah, and a knife, and go up to the third floor, got me?”

“Which room—“

“The whole floor is my room.”

“I’m jealous now.”

Louis smirks and winks at Nick, and then he’s gone.

Nick walks into the kitchen with a smile on his face and makes a quick small-talk with the girls while trying to remember all the things Louis needs.

He also takes the burger bread although Louis forgot about it.

***

Louis’ floor is different. It doesn’t look like a picture from a Christmas decor catalog, not that neat and perfect in all the ways. Nick noticed it even with all the people there, all the bottles and pillows on the floor couldn’t cover the unrealistic coziness of the first floor.

Louis’ floor is messy. No, the floors are clean, the bed is too, but the bookshelves are disorganized and posters on the walls are glued on one another, and there are clothes on the chair and a dozen of blankets on a giant sofa. A giant sofa with Louis sitting proudly on it, legs crossed, four bottles of beer and a plate with patties on the coffee table in front of him. He looks extremely good like that, in his own habitat, a tee shirt, old sweats and muffled hair.

“Where the fuck did you get this beer,” Nick snorts and frees his hands, then walks back to close the door.

“From a private collection of mine,” the boy answers arrogantly, but his eyes are shining mischievously.

“I’ll have you know I’m gonna throw up if I drink one more bottle of beer.”

“Dont underestimate yourself, love,” Louis leans towards the table and starts cutting the vegetables. “We’re going to watch Harry Potter, by the way.”

“I’m in, but not the last parts.”

“I bloody hate them too.”

“I didn’t say—“

“You do hate them.”

Nick purses his lips and rises an eyebrow.

“I do, you’re right.”

Nick has no idea how but Louis’ burgers are beyond delicious. And they end up watching the Prisoner of Azkaban, and personally Nick thinks it’s the most high-pressure part of Harry Potter.

“First of all, in compare with the first and the second parts, it’s really mature, like, deep and a little violent, and the contrast is already tensioning, but apart from this, there are much heavier family troubles at the very beginning, then they introduce us to Sirius Black, the most criminal of all criminals, and, pardonnez-moi, but Buckbeak? He almost died! I—“

“You’re a nerd.”

“You have a Gryffindor scarf tied up on the foot of your bed.”

“So what?”

Both of them need a couple of seconds to understand what the other’s saying, then a couple more to analyze what to say as well, because god they’re wasted.

“So I...dunno.”

“Shut up then.”

Louis frowns first, but then rises his eyebrows, gaze slipping down to Nick’s mouth, and grins, well, he probably thinks he’s grinning, but it looks like a dumb euphoric smile instead.

“I mean,” Nick lips his lips, knowing exactly he’s being watched.

“C’mon,” Louis breaths out and climbs up into Nick’s lap in one nimble movement. “Nothing serious, right?” his hand cups Nick’s jaw, while Nick’s hands are already clutching the boy’s love handles.

“Right,” Nick agrees, and gets a press of a smugly grinning lips against his.

***

They kiss again, a lot, in different places, but never quite sober. They don’t talk about it, no mentions or even inside jokes at work or coffee breaks, but that is that, Nick and Louis, together, with crimson cheeks and necks, dilated pupils and hardening dicks, panting into each other’s lips when no one’s watching.

It’s good, and there’s no day when it’s not.

***

The premier is on the last day of March, and about twenty people off the cast gather at Dan’s house to celebrate the final date. It’s mostly their gang, and the atmosphere is really cozy.

Nick’s messaging Harry who’s not there today because he and Zayn are invited to the dinner at Harry’s parents, when someone joins him on the sofa. Nick looks up to see a pair of warm brown eyes.

It’s Jonathan, the sound designer, with a bottle of rose vermouth in his hand.

“My life wants me dead of alcohol intoxication,” Nick pleads overdramatically, although his pose is already inviting.

“We’re all gonna die,” Jonathan shrugs and passes him a glass, and it’s not funny or quirky but Nick lets the corner of his mouth curve, because he has never interacted with Jonathan more than for five minutes and it’s a shame because he seems like an absolute darling.

People join them and leave, but their conversation this time is a long one, pretty pleasing on one hand, too secular for Nick to be really enjoyed. Jonathan looks like he’s having the time of his life, eyes smiling and absorbing everything Nick has to say.

And of course, when they’re long done with the bottle and Nick’s surprised because he doesn’t even feel drunk, Jonathan has to invite him on a date.

‘If it wasn’t a date but your bedroom, honey...’ Nick thinks, but smiles apologetically instead and tell him what he’s said about one hundred times already. Something about the wrong time and shit, something about maybe later, something about a no but softly, because the man is really cute and nice and is not a type to deserve a harsh fuck off.

Jonathan is not broken but his eyes are sad, and Nick gives him a hug and brings his apologies about the wasted on nothing bottle of martini. Of course he says, no, Nick, it’s alright, we talked at least, I’ve spend a wonderful evening with you and all that jazz, and they stand up together, because Jonathan needs to pee and Nick wants to find Alexa and go home.

It’s after he tries to walk that he realizes he’s absolutely drunk. His blood rushes to his face, his cheeks are suddenly burning, his legs shaking and body becomes so bloody heavy. Wonderful, just like that time he was seventeen at his friend’s 18th birthday party, sitting at the table and talking to everyone, and his glass of champagne was constantly being refilled by the waiter, and in the end he stood up and realized he was incapable to control himself.

Thank god he’s not seventeen anymore and has a slight understanding of what to do.

Yeah, he leaves.

Kisses everyone goodbye and leaves, his walk a little funny, head spinning too, but maybe he’s gone be better outside, he thinks. He’s wrong, because Dan has a habit of opening all his fucking windows all the goddamn time, and nothing changes when Nick enters the street.

All his friends are either at Dan’s, or sleeping already, and the only person who could take care of him is Harry Styles. Nick almost calls Harry Styles, but although he knows he won’t reject him, his evening will be a little ruined—Lewis.

“‘lo?” he answers almost immediately, and Nick smiles to himself.

“Lou—uh, are you at home?”

“Nick? You’re alright?”

“Yea, ‘m fine, don worry, ah just thought—“

“Where are you?”

“‘s fine, Imma call me a cab an be fine, love.”

“I’m already in a cab, where are you? We’ll pick you up.”

“I don wanna be a burden,” Nick mumbles, leaning on the wall and pulling a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth.

“Nick—“

“Fine, I need a light anyway, ya know where Daniel lives?”

“Stand there, don’t move, I’ll be in five,” Louis says, pausing after every word.

Nick is surprised to realize that he feels a little warmer. He shakes his head, fighting it all off, and finally finds his lighter in the pocket of his jeans. All of his problems are because of alcohol. Not only his body, his brain is out of control too, and the thoughts he’s feen blocking for awhile now are the only cristal clear things at the moment. He just wants it all to end, he wants to be sober, he doesn’t want any feelings, he does not, he does not, _he does not_. He even thinks of running away, calling a cab, going back to Dan’s, fuck Jonathan in the bedroom, wherever, but—but he’s absolutely defenseless now. His soul wins, his head loses, and he just pulls another cigarette out of the pack and watches the last snow coming down in the grey streets of London.

***

He probably falls asleep on Louis, because all Nick remembers from the ride is someone’s fingers stroking his hair and 00s music cab drivers appreciate for some unexplainable reasons.

“Could you please...” Nick mumbles quietly, putting his keys into Louis’ hand, when they get out of the car and get closer to Nick’s building.

“Sure,” Louis nods and opens the door, a smile lighting up his face immediately as Pig and Stinky run up to greet them. “Oh my god,” he giggles and gets down on his knees to pet them, “how pretty you both are, Jesus!”

Nick smiles, watching them, his heart aching a little, but it’s probably because he’s hungry. He tries to say no when Louis offers to take the dogs out for a walk, but gives up.

“Don go too far, and twenny mins is enough, mkay?” he says and hands him the leashes.

“Kay,” Louis smiles, then makes Nick put off his shoes and street clothes and promise him that he’ll go to bed.

“I mean I’ll try to but what if I wanna pee or eat or—“

“Nick.”

“What?”

“Go. To bed.”

And he does, but wakes up the second he hears the door closing for the second time.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Louis frowns when Nick stumbles in the hall again. The dogs try to run towards their water, but Nick manages to grab Pig.

“Gotta wash them,” he explains and goes to the bathroom, ignoring Louis’ objections. “Bring Stinky.”

“Jesus Christ, you intolerable fuck.”

They wash the dogs and let them go, and Nick insists that Louis stays the night.

“C’mon, I swear I’m not tryna fuck ya,” he says, pulling the boy into his bedroom. “Jus don wanna let you go this late. Here,” he hands Louis a tee and a pair of pajama pants. “You can jus undress too, I’m not that familiar with your sleeping habits, so...”

Louis bursts into laughter and takes off his clothes, only pulling on the t-shirt.

“How did you get so drunk?” he asks after laying down beside Nick.

“It’s Jonathan. You know Jonathan? A pretty brown-eyed fella. We drank a bottle of vermouth together and he asked me out.”

“Oh.”

“I said no. Then we stood up and I realized that I, in fact, wasn’t that sober at all.”

The boy snorts.

“I wouldn’t mind fucking him,” Nick continues although he knows it’s unnecessary, “but not after a date or a couple of dates.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really need anything apart from casual sex, you know,” Nick feels how his head clears up little by little.

“Why?” Louis repeats, and his voice sounds a little hoarse. Nick’s heart drops.

“It’s a long story.”

“You don’t look like you’re planning to sleep.”

“And you told me I was intolerable, huh?”

Louis chuckles, but it comes out a little reluctant.

Nick inhales deeply.

“I don’t really want to trash myself but objectively, I’m a coward. I used to love a boy, that was a long time ago, even Harry doesn’t know that, and he used my, um. Presence? My energy? Like, to heal himself? And then he left because he didn’t need me anymore, he said you don’t need me and for I don’t need you no more, there’s no point for us to be together. Imagine him sucking out my love for him, not even realizing what he’s doing to me. He said I was just positioning myself like a mom friend, a mom boyfriend, whatever, and when he got tired of it, when there was nothing left to heal, he left. I don’t want to have my heart broken again, because I know I have some kind of a weakness for broken people, and sooner or later they’ll leave me. Because they won’t need me any more. Because it sucks when all you talk about is their mental health and the way they get over their traumas.”

“And what did he mean to you?”

Nick stares at the ceiling, not sure if he’s leaning into the press of Louis’ body against his or not.

“He meant a world to me. Maybe he was right and I was into his traumas and problems, and not him, but...but no. We can’t define love, we can only feel it, and what I felt was love. Not pity or whatever. Period,” Nick answers with a sardonic smile on his lips.

“You’re so careful with your heart,” Louis’ voice is barely a whisper.

Nick falls asleep, thinking of an answer.

***

He wakes up before Louis, surprisingly. His head aches and mouth feels like shit, and his lips are dry because he slept on his back, the boy curled in a ball beside him.

As quiet as possible, he closes the bedroom door and takes a shower, then takes the dogs out for a morning walk.

February looks like shit, no more Christmas postscards and paysages. Nick tries to look at the buildings instead of the ground, because he’s already sad, while they walk to the coffee where he buys croissants, tarts, coffee and bagels for breakfast.

Louis is still asleep when they come back, and Nick washes the dogs’ paws and feeds them, drinks his coffee and makes himself some tea, then opens his laptop.

“Didn’t know you wear glasses.”

Louis’ voice makes Nick wince. He tilts his head up, and honestly, the view is endearing. Let alone the burnt ochre hair and hazy blue irises, the boy’s drowning in Nick’s t-shirt.

“I...yeah.”

“Contacts are bad for your eyes, wear glasses more often,” he sits in front of Nick and puts his head on the palms of his hands. “I’m hungry.”

“Croissants, bagels, coffee, vegetables, leftover thai...blueberry tarts?”

“Blueberry tarts. And black tea, please.”

“Does that mean I can have your coffee?” Nick asks, standing up.

“It must be cold already.”

“It’s still good.”

“Then lemme try it first,” Louis curves the corner of his mouth and reaches for the cup. “We’re not gonna talk about anything, as usual, right?”

Nick snorts. He’s beyond satisfied that he feels nothing: no shame, no regret, no need to explain or to be explained.

“You appreciate this aspect of our relationship as well, don’t you.”

“I hate complicated.”

“Then I did a good job clearing everything out,” Nick gives him a smile and his cup of tea. “Ready for the last month?”

***

It all becomes easier but harder at the same time.

They work together every day, Nick controls every single minute of the repetitions, and Louis’ play is a pleasure to enjoy, even haters notice it. They don’t drink on Fridays or Saturdays together, but Nick feels that it would be the end anyway. It’s hard because he got attached. It’s easier because shit won’t get deeper.

As if.

“What’s the next thing we’re gonna do?” Harry asks once, when they’re sitting at Nick’s, cooking.

“You mean, as for working on at the theater?”

“Uh-huh.”

The steady rhythm of Harry cutting bellpapers is filling up the room.

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Do you think Louis will stay with us after Faust?”

“After two years of his contract?”

“Shit. Right. Two years.”

Pig runs over and puts her laps on Nick’s knees. He pulls her up.

“What’s with Jonathan? He told me he wanted to ask you out.”

“He did.”

“No?”

“No.”

Harry pours some oil into the pan. Nick’s watching him from behind.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me or..?”

He stands still for a couple of seconds and then shrugs.

“I love you, like, really love you. But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

Nick hates that he cannot understand whether he knows about Louis or not.

“Why would you think there’s something you should do?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think you’re the saddest person I know. And I know a lot of sad people.”

“I don’t need need to be happy, I’m fine.”

“Right,” he says and nods, then chuckles. “You’re fine.”

Pig yawns and puts her head onto Nick’s shoulder. Stinky’s already napping in the corner of the room.

“I hate this thing between winter and spring.”

“No one loves it. And I’m scared for my dogs. They’ve started using more chemicals lately.”

“In the dog park too?”

“No, and I hate that we have to go there because I hate that place.”

“Fucking blue blood,” Harry snorts.

“Exactly,” Nick grins in return and runs his hand down Pig’s spine.

***

“Ready for trying to shake people’s stone cold hearts tomorrow?” Nick asks after greeting Louis and they come down to the parking lot together.

“Ready to write a review?” Louis smirks.

“Already written one, gonna post it the day after tomorrow I guess.”

“Have fun with the editing in the evening,” the boy mocks, breathing out cigarette smoke.

“Well it’s you who should have fun this evening, so,” Nick snorts and winks at Louis, watching his cheeks turning slightly pinker than they were before.

It’s just, he has a date today, with some dude he met at Zayn’s work. And these four fucking weeks...these four fucking weeks has been perfect, as if they were back to early December, as if they were just colleagues. It helped. It does help. And Louis’ date helps. It means the boy was not that into him, maybe not into him at all, and thank God Nick has never been a fan of unrequited love. No means no, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Not like he wants to, either.

“Don’t stay up too late.”

“Yeah, no drinks, no weed, no insomnia—“

“Sounds unrealistic.”

“Sounds awful.”

“You nervous?”

Louis blinks a couple of times, as if the question takes him by surprise.

“You mean...before the date of tomorrow?”

Nick smiles, sure as fuck aware that his eyes are empty.

“Tomorrow.”

Louis shrugs and lights up another cigarette, leaning on his car.

“I’m not worried about my performance, I know I’m ready,” he says, and it sounds anything but arrogant. “But I don’t...I know a lot of things are going to be said about me, more than ever, and—fuck, sorry.”

“What? Why?”

“I didn’t want to spill it all on you,” he shakes his head quickly, “I’m fine, Nick, don’t worry. Heavy Theater Lover is still my fave.”

Let the art talk, and make people hear it screaming. These eyes are capable of that, these are the eyes of Mephisto in the end. Die trying, and you’ll last forever, that moment people dream of catching will be infinite.

Through the gritted teeth and aching heart, Nick nods and smiles before hugging him goodbye.

***

At seven pm it starts to snow, and Nick stares at the window for fifteen minutes before getting back to his book. Unfortunately, his concentration is already lost, and he stands up to open the said window a little, it feels too silent when both dogs are napping on the sofa.

He sits back and opens his book again, forcing himself to follow the lines, but his gaze gets stuck on random words and he puts it away.

He is not hungry, he ate an hour ago, but he still stands up again, walks into the kitchen, eats a pop tart, then makes himself a toast and eats a pack of Pringles, too.

He doesn’t have anything to do, so he closes his laptop soon after opening it and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, because the taste in his mouth is awful.

He closes the door to his bedroom so the dogs won’t come in, opens the window and pushes the armchair closer, then flops down onto it and lights up a cigarette.

He finishes one, stands up to wrap himself in a blanket because he’s cold, then sits back and lights up one more. The snow’s still coming down, huge December snowflakes in March, waltzing down on his hands, his windowsill, the ground. It’s probably the last snow this year, though he had this thought in February already.

He eats an oreo and goes back to the sitting room. Stinky sneezes and wakes up and Nick chuckles when their eyes meet.

“C’mon here Stinky Blob,” he murmurs and picks him up, pressing him against his chest. “I reek of smoke, hope you don’t really mind it ‘cause I love you so-o-o-o much...”

Stinky yawns and buries his nose in his armpit.

“Although you’re pretty disgusting.”

He’s still standing in the middle of the room when the doorbell rings. Stinky whimpers. Nick fights an urge to stay the fuck away from the door and ignore whoever it is.

They ring again.

“Fuck.”

As slowly as he can Nick walks to the door and turns the key with a click.

“Louis?”

The boy looks a little frustrated, but fine as fuck in a grey coat, the collar of his white shirt poking out under the scarf Nick gave him for his birthday. Millions of melted snowflakes are spread on his shoulders and chest, and his cheekbones are red from the cold outside.

“I—hi, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat.

They remain silent for a couple of seconds.

“What’s the matter?”

“So I went on that date, we were at the restaurant of course, and he was extremely cute and he’s smart and unique in some ways, but I couldn’t stop comparing this date to our daily coffee dates although they were not dates at all,” he breathes out and holds his hand up, as for telling Nick to keep his mouth shut. “And I realized that I’d rather die than not tell you that I lied that day at the costume room, because I’m actually interested as fuck, always have been, even before “One Dream, one Band”, even before I got to know you properly. And now I don’t know what to do, I like you and I don’t know what to do, because of course I can’t guarantee that I won’t leave, let’s be honest, but I can swear on my knees that this time I think a world of you, and I would never just use you like that boy did because I fall in love every time you speak, I fucking adore listening to you, because you live for beauty, you live for art, you know what you want to see and without you I probably wouldn’t be inspired, and now I’m inspired to inspire as well, and I just...I could throw my heart to you right now but I know you don’t need it, I know you know you have it, and I know that you need your heart to be taken care of, so I’m...I’m...”

He stops, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, he’s out of breath. Secondly, the door somewhere on the upper floor shuts down loudly. Thirdly, Nick sways his head from side to side, pursing his lips and with an infinite kind of sorrow in his eyes.

“Come’ere,” he murmurs, opening his arm a little, the other one still holding Stinky.

Louis looks at him, unsure, but still takes a step closer to him and carefully presses his body against Nick’s side, his nose tucked into the column of his neck. Nick winces unwillingly, because the nose is colder than a shard of ice.

“Is that a loser encouragement?”

Nick chuckles.

“You want to pin me down so much all the time.”

“It’s because you’re unreadable.”

Nick closes his eyes exhaustedly.

“You’ve just told me things I could never dream of hearing, Louis.”

Nick stops feeling the boy’s chest rising and falling.

“Especially not after what we’ve been through, especially not from you. I’ll also have you know I’m still scared. I’m still fucking terrified.”

Stinky sneezes softly somewhere between their bodies and Nick opens his eyes.

“But it would be a shame to keep being a coward in front of a boy I like and not at least try to give us a chance.”

Louis pulls away a little to look directly into Nick’s eyes. His lips fall apart in the slightest.

**Author's Note:**

> dear writcraft,  
> your prompts were amazing and i'm glad you encouraged any interpretations of them; i couldn't dream of a more wonderful person to dedicate my first ever exchange fic to, and it's also kind of an honour for me too, for i've been tumblr crushing on you for ages. i hope you liked my spin of two of your prompts - the one with nick having a blog and the theater one, although i know there are lots of gaps and overall defects in it. 
> 
> also i'd like to thank our incredible mods for being so kind, patient and cheerful. it helped a lot.


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